na foine ting: "this is a fine thing, here" or "look at this fine thing" or "I've got a very fine thing here, check it out" or "well, this is a damn pretty fucking kettle of fish; nice work, buckethead."

I thought if I quit fire I would never again see a rig pass by without regret. Over time, I realized it wasn't true. I would get a surge of something like affection, when I saw an engine, a wave of anger, a sense of identification, and at core, a deep and real understanding of what goes on.

On the way home from the rink in the truck, G was on a “why” track.

“Why do the boys play hockey?”

“Because they love it, honey.”

“Why do they love it?”

I sat for a moment in silence. I thought of the players on the ice, dug in, determined, humbled by the process, hitting barriers and pushing past, or failing, to challenge them again. “Because of all the places to be, it's where they want to be the most,” I said at last.

“Why?”

It was too complicated, that final answer. Because it makes us better people, I wanted to tell him. Because it pushes us to the absolute edge limit of who we are. Because it is the symbol by which we define ourselves.

But because, ultimately, “It makes them happy, baby.” Beginning to realize that wherever that is, when we find it, is where we should be.